


a lonely soul

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M, Retirement, Unrequited Love, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10377219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He watches the inauguration from the couch in his condo.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



> Inspired by [fingalsanteater](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/pseuds/fingalsanteater) and her series, [John Boehner](http://archiveofourown.org/series/201911).

He watches the inauguration from the couch in his condo. The blinds are open and the Florida sun pours in while it rains on the assembled crowd in Washington D.C. Not that there’s much of a crowd, per say, but that doesn’t matter – it’s not like _he’s_ being sworn in, now is it?

There’s a close-up of Bush Jr. struggling with his poncho and John has to put down his glass because he’s afraid he’s going to spill it if he keeps laughing like this. _My god_ , he thinks, _how did we get here?_ It feels like yesterday he was condemning Ted Cruz for essentially being a shithead and now, Donald Trump is taking the oath of office.

“Fuck,” he says, and takes a long sip of wine. He wonders which house Debbie’s watching from. If she’s watching at all, that is. It doesn’t feel like she’s taken well to his return – or him in general – and who knows how long they’ll be living in separate houses for. Maybe he’ll never be able to get back to D.C.

The ceremony comes to a close, and John knows what’s next – the Obamas will see themselves out and then they’ll go off and be private citizens. Private citizens after a long period of time in which they were essentially engulfed in the deepest parts of the political world. Just like him.

John thinks of that video for the Correspondent’s Dinner and, with a chuckle, he takes his phone and sends a text: _Couch commander_

He’s out getting groceries at Publix when the reply comes: _Don’t tell anyone, but I did get McDonald’s breakfast from the airport while Michelle wasn’t looking_

John lets out an undignified snort and shakes his head. There’s someone else in the aisle who turns to stare at him but he ignores her in favor of his phone. _Let’s hope the cashier doesn’t tell._

_Not unless she goes over to investigate  
She can be very persuasive_

He doesn’t buy much, just the essentials – milk, butter, eggs, bread, some cheap wine when he doesn’t want to drink the expensive ones – and the cashier gives him a curious look while she’s scanning the food.

“Have a nice day,” he says, smiling as he takes his bags and walks out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paul Ryan calls him thirty-two times within two days and John ignores each and every one. He’s out of politics now, there’s no reason for him to be engulfed in whatever troubles Paul is facing with this new president. He’s got to learn how to do this on his own.

Instead, after a couple of hours of reviewing reports and replying to emails, John continues on with his carefree life. He’s got his feet kicked up on the table, a game controller in his hands, a bottle of wine nearby, and _The Witcher 3_ on the TV screen – as recommended to him by the helpful assistant at the mall and concurred by two of his former aides.

He’s barely finished the tutorial when, of all things, there’s a direct message notification for him on Twitter from, of all people, Barack Obama. He pauses the game and checks his phone.

It’s a very simple picture – of a beach. There’s the sun, there’s the sea, there’s the clear blue sky, there’s the nice white sand. It’s quite picturesque, really. Barack’s a surprisingly good photographer – both behind and in front of the camera.

John considers his response. He could, of course, just reply with something like ‘nice’ or ‘cool’ or ‘how relaxing’. But, he’s in Florida, where people come because of the nice weather and the beautiful beaches, and there’s also the fact that he spent a good portion of his career as Speaker of the House trying to one-up Barack.

So, without thinking about it further, he shuts off the gaming console, grabs his keys, and goes to the beach. A polo shirt and khaki shorts aren’t the ideal beach outfit, but then again, it’s not like Barack’s here to see what he’s wearing. He parks his car, gets in the middle of the sand, surrounded by children and parents and couples and tourists and average Americans, and he takes a picture.

And then he sends it to Barack.

_Haha, nice :)_

John’s first thought is, _All that work for_ this _?_ And then he laughs, because he literally drove to the beach to impress a former colleague.

“I gotta get out more,” he mumbles to himself as he heads back to his car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Windsurfing with Richard Branson?” John says, his incredulity clear from his tone. “ _That’s_ what you’re doing?”

“To be honest, it was all Michelle’s idea,” Barack says, laughing on the other end of the phone.

John wipes his face with his hand. “Christ,” he mumbles. “You know what I did after I retired? I cleaned my apartment. _Twice_.”

“Your apartment _is_ in Florida,” Barack counters. “And you _have_ been to the beach there.”

“I suppose you have a point. But I’m not in the Virgin Islands with a millionaire. Or is it billionaire?” He rolls his eyes as Barack starts to laugh again. “Whatever happened to being with the ordinary people and not the coastal elite?”

“Oh, come on, John, I’m retired now – I can do what I want, whenever I want.”

“Are you going to start smoking again?” There’s a beat, and then John grins. “Ah, I’ve got you there, haven’t I?”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point.” Barack chuckles softly, deep and low, and John never thought about it before, but it’s a wonderful laugh. “You know, you’ve mellowed out a lot in retirement. I feel like we can actually be friends now.”

“Are you saying we weren’t friends before?” John asks, but he lets out a laugh at the end. “I think it’s because I can get back into day-drinking now.”

“Oh, you don’t know how much I’ve missed day-drinking,” Barack says, and they start laughing again. He clears his throat a little. “But seriously, when I get back to D.C., maybe we could get together for some drinks – us two retirees, the perfect image of casting aside partisan behaviors and just being two people together.”

John thinks about it for a moment. Him and Barack, sitting by the fire, laughing and drinking, no longer having to fight. Hell, just talking to him for these few moments have brightened up his entire month considerably so what the hell? “That sounds like a good idea,” he says, before quickly adding, “but none of that ‘fake news’ following us, all right?”

“I’ll do my best,” Barack hums, and John can’t help but smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a nice dinner, all things considered. They sit in the living room when they’re done eating, side by side on the couch, leaning back while the TV plays some Lifetime original movie.

“You know, I don’t think the American people give Lifetime Originals the credit they deserve,” Barack says with a straight face.

“Barack, I think you’re drunk out of your mind,” John replies. He drains his glass in a single gulp and wipes it with the back of his hand.

Barack grins a little, struggling to go back to his serious persona. “Come on now, John, there’s a lot of stuff that goes into these movies – acting, writing, plot development…” Something happens on-screen and then he breaks into laughter.

John shakes his head with a grin. “Couldn’t do it, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t,” Barack chuckles. He sets down his glass and turns to him. “I’m glad we could do this, John. Just be two normal people together with no strife between us.”

“I’m glad we could do that too,” John says. He’s suddenly aware of their proximity, of how close his body is to Barack’s, their legs touching, arms brushing against each other. He’s not looking there, though, he’s looking at his eyes, his lips, stained slightly while his tongue darts out ever so slightly.

John’s not sure who makes the first move or what happens next, all he knows is that he’s lying back on a bed and he’s throwing aside Barack’s clothes and Barack is kissing him like he’s never been kissed before. He tastes like Merlot and dark chocolate and John is _hungry_ for it.

Barack’s arms are strong and heavy and John arches up against him as he wraps his hand around his cock and starts to tease it with slow, painstaking stroke.

“Oh god,” John moans, “oh Christ, please, please, I need it.”

“What do you need?” Barack asks. His voice is deeper, raspier, and John can’t help but fucking moan again.

“Dammit, please, _please_ fuck me.” God, he can’t believe he’s been reduced to begging this quickly, _fuck_.

Barack doesn’t change his pace, though. If anything, he goes even slower – down to just a single finger sliding down his shaft. John feels like he’s going to explode with tension. “Say it properly, John.”

John takes a deep breath. He leans his head up and says, in the most debauched voice he’s ever had, “Mr. President, may you _please_ fuck me?”

“Now _there’s_ a good boy,” Barack says, and then –

And then John’s phone buzzes and he wakes up in bed. In his own bed, back in Florida, and not in Barack Obama’s bed in Washington. His sheets have been thrown around and his dick is rock hard and he can’t stop thinking about the fact that he just had a wet dream about getting fucked by Barack Obama.

 _The things you discover in retirement_ , he thinks, as he reaches for his phone. It’s another fucking call from Paul fucking Ryan, and John resists the urge to throw his phone aside. Instead, he takes a deep breath and returns back to the thoughts about the dream – about how good it felt to be kissed by him, to be enveloped in his strong arms, hell, even to call him by his (former) title and to be referred to as a ‘good boy’.

He grips his dick through his boxers and imagines it – how hard he’d be fucked, wide and gaping and desperate for it; how he’d sit at Barack’s feet and fucking _beg_ to suck his dick, and how nice it would feel to have his nice, warm hands card through his hair while he mumbles sweet nothings in that deep, deep, sexy voice of his and – fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s coming.

John lies there, in bed, in the middle of the night, and tries not to think about what he was just thinking about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, after what felt like the longest shower he’s ever taken in his life, John gets a text from him: _Coming back to DC in a couple of days. See you there?_

John doesn’t hesitate in responding, _Of course. Can’t wait._

“If you can’t beat them, fuck them,” he says to himself, and sets off to find some breakfast.


End file.
